“Yes, sir,” murmured Teddy, rather meekly. The red-faced little man didn’t seem quite so easy. There was a ring of finality in his voice that meant business. Just then a monotonous voice was heard calling, “Mr. Duf-field, Mr. Duf-field,” and the aisle manager trotted off toward the sound, leaving Teddy to his own devices. He sidled up to a table of blue and white kitchen ware and surveyed it with contemptuous eyes. How the fellows in school would tease him if they knew where he was. They would call him “kitchen mechanic” and “Bridget,” and any other appropriate names that happened to come to their minds. Teddy’s unhappy reflections were broken in upon by a peremptory voice, “Here, boy.” Teddy turned toward the sound and saw a salesman beckoning to him. The little, red-haired boy obeyed the call with alacrity. Mischievous though he might be, Teddy, thanks to Harry’s earnest views of good service, had made up his mind to do his best.
“Take these over to the wrapping desk. It’s all the way back, behind that partition.” The man piled Teddy’s thin, wiry arms high with cooking utensils.
“Don’t drop ’em,” he directed, “and don’t lose the checks.”
The boy started off jauntily enough. The granite-ware utensils had been piled one upon another in a huge dishpan. On the very top of the lot was a stewpan with a long handle. Before Teddy had proceeded ten feet, it slid off the pile to the floor with a protesting rattle. Teddy glanced quickly about. He wondered if anyone had seen him drop the pan. There was no one near the long aisle through which he walked, except a demonstrator, who was so busy cooking something on a shining hot-plate that she paid no attention to him. Setting down his load on the end of a table piled with similar goods, he picked up the offending stewpan and put it in place. He had barely started when off it slid again. “I’ll fix you,” he muttered. Seizing it savagely he measured it with his eye, then jamming it firmly down upon his head, proceeded calmly up the aisle, looking not unlike a small helmeted knight.
“Boy!” A horrified voice checked Teddy’s triumphal progress, causing him to let the whole armful of kitchen ware clatter to the floor. Bearing down upon him strode a tall, loose-jointed man, whose arms seemed to flap as he walked.
“Take that pan off your head. Take it off, I say!” He pointed dramatically toward the stewpan, still perched upon Teddy’s red hair. Two sales-girls and a customer passed by. The girls giggled outright. The customer, a stout, comfortable-looking woman, smiled.
The pan came off Teddy’s head in a twinkling. “It wouldn’t stay on the pile,” he murmured, but his eyes were dancing. He stooped to gather up his fallen wares.
“Look at me,” commanded the man. “How long have you been in this department?”
“’Bout half an hour.” Far from being abashed, Teddy straightened up and eyed his questioner. He was not thinking about what he had done. He could still see the tall man flapping toward him, looking for all the world like a funny scarecrow he had once seen in a play. He had to scowl to keep from laughing.
“Well, let me tell you, young man, you won’t be here half an hour longer, if I catch you at any more such tricks. Do you think a customer wants a stewpan that a boy has been using for a head piece? What do you suppose our customers will say about Martin Brothers’ store, if we allow our boys to disgrace us in that fashion!”